


Your Heart's a Mess

by chronicallyHaughty



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Implied/Referenced Past Garfield Logan/Damian Wayne, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Presumed Unrequited Love, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-15 06:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13024998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chronicallyHaughty/pseuds/chronicallyHaughty
Summary: Really, Damian thinks with a roll of his eyes, if Drake keeps frowning so much it’s going to ruin his handsome face. Once the thought registers properly he is so surprised by it that he recoils, making Drake look up at him in question.“Your face is hideous,” Damian blurts.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be for a fandom exchange and that process taught me a few things, such as the fact that I don't handle deadlines well. I waffled for quite some time over whether or not this was even worth finishing, but it seemed a waste to throw so many words in the trash, so I decided to buckle down and get it done after all!
> 
> In any case, here be many words of Damian being ridiculous. I wanna take this moment to thank the Tru Pals on the JayDick discord server for cheerleading and handholding and beta-ing (gecko, Volavi, Sea, Gurl, and Chi to name a few). I would never have been able to get this far without your support and encouragement! Title from [this Gotye song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MpN1j8R5lZ8).

Gotham Gazette (✓) @GothamGazette * 13 April 2017   
The prodigal son returns! The Gazette has all the pictures:  gthgz.co/7jh6y1

—————

Damian will admit that his relationship with Timothy Jackson Drake has had its ups and downs over the years – with the occasional stabbing incident thrown in – but these past two months he has been remarkably well behaved. Having recently returned from his year spent training with various masters across the globe he had discovered that he has finally grown taller – not to mention  _ heavier _ – than Drake.

This seems to irk his predecessor as much as it pleases Damian, and so, naturally, Damian exploits it to the best of his abilities. A favored approach is making himself a nuisance during their nightly briefings, putting Drake between himself and another tall man such as Todd – who always grins conspiratorially at him over Drake’s head – or Father – who sighs in disapproval before returning to his briefing. The constipated faces Drake makes as he remains rooted to his spot thanks to his unbreakable pride are more than worth that minimal effort.

That said, and friendly teasing aside Damian does understand that the family makes for a better unit if its members at least attempt to keep animosity to a minimum. Hence, his current situation. He shifts his grip on the box in his hands as he descends the stairs, hearing squeaks from within, and walks into the medical area of the cave.

The previous night there had been an incident in the field, resulting in Drake suffering a bad forearm break and being sedated. Although Drake still looks small and pathetic on the cot in the Batcave medical bay, his eyes are now unclouded by sedatives. Rather than rest, as he by all rights  _ should _ be doing, he seems to be attempting to micromanage Todd and Cassandra’s activities nearby.

Drake is likely to grow antsy enough to make an ill-advised escape attempt soon, but fortunately for Drake’s health Pennyworth had caught Damian at the door and asked that he help put a stop to whatever scheme Drake is concocting. Hopefully the cargo Damian carries will be enough to keep Drake in his bed. He places the box gently on the floor to pluck one individual from the group. The inherent humor in the comparison of Drake’s state to that of a newborn kitten is not lost to Damian as he carefully places the small animal on his chest.

“What’s this?” Drake’s voice is hoarse from disuse and as weak as the rest of him. Damian is not being intentionally derogatory with his terminology this time, as Drake’s hands shake as he tries to lift them, wincing at the strain put on his forearm.

Damian picks the cardboard box back up from the floor, being careful not to jostle its four little inhabitants, the siblings of the one he’s leaving in Drake’s care for the time being. He will situate them in their new accommodations momentarily, but for now he glances pointedly at the creature he just placed on Drake’s chest.

“It is, as a matter of fact, a kitten. That is a very young cat, in case you were wondering. A small, carnivorous mammal of the felidae family…”

“Alright, alright,” Drake grumbles, carefully reaching out to pat its tiny head with a finger on his good hand, being mindful not to mess with the IV attached to it. The kitten squeaks.

“Careful, might be a bomb in disguise,” Todd quips from where he is testing Cassandra’s knee for injury a cot away. Cassandra gives him a gentle smack on the head.

“Ow,” Todd says good-naturedly. He is ignored, but for once in his life he doesn’t seem to mind it.

To Damian’s consternation Drake’s hand freezes for a moment before resuming its careful motion. Damian rolls his eyes with a huff. That’s what he gets for trying to be nice, he supposes.

“Why is there a kitten, Damian.” Drake  _ says _ it rather than  _ asks _ it. Quite rude of him, but that kind of behaviour is hardly surprising from him. That’s just how Drake and he interact.

Damian sighs and rolls his eyes again, exaggeratedly, before supplying, “I thought it might speed up your recovery.”

He clears his throat, fighting down a sudden feeling of awkwardness.

“In case you did not know,” he continues, his tone implying that he isn’t expecting Drake to, “cats’ purrs are known to promote healing. From a purely strategic standpoint, the more of us on the street, the better. Most people would not complain over getting to borrow a kitten, but of course, you aren’t  _ most people, _ are you?”

He tries to restrict the amount of derision in his words –  _ “At least _ try _ keeping the peace, Dami,” _ Richard whines in his mind – but Drake frowns at him anyway. Damian thinks he looks rather like a raisin with his face scrunched up like that. The thought is amusing.

“Oh yeah, that evil smirk of yours is  _ really _ selling the ‘kindness’ angle,” Drake mutters sarcastically, but he turns back to the kitten and keeps stroking it, Damian notes. The kitten yawns, and Drake’s face seems to transform into something almost  _ sweet _ when he smiles.

Uncomfortable for some reason that he can’t quite put his finger on, Damian decides his work here is done. He nods to Todd and Cassandra, and leaves without a word in order to do other, more important things. Like finding the kittens’ mother and alerting her to the change in location of her offspring. He shakes off his unease and shifts the box so as to better see the stairs as he ascends them, getting a quick look at the little ones inside. They seem to be asleep. The garden shed would have been a less than optimal place to raise young, after all; one of the many empty bedrooms in the manor is sure to serve that purpose far better.

Typical of Kyle to give him a cat already well into pregnancy. Half apology, half getting on his father’s nerves. Damian smiles to himself and casts another quick glance into the box. There’s four of them, one orange boy, one tortoiseshell girl, and two tabby girls besides the tuxedo girl he has momentarily left with Drake, and they are all healthy and strong. He expects them to be most proficient at hunting once they grow into adulthood. He lets his mind be occupied with plans for kitten-proofing a room as well as convincing the mother of its suitability.

That brief interaction with Drake stays on his mind for hours afterward, even as he sifts through some case files and then has a quiet dinner with Cassandra and Todd, the latter with his nose in a book since no one is around to reprimand him for it. Cassandra sends him a few looks during the meal, but Damian dismisses her silent invitation to talk with a slight shake of his head. He needs to work through this… Drake shaped  _ anomaly _ on his own.

When he goes to check on the kittens after finishing his meal, Cassandra accompanies him in pleasant, companionable silence. They find all five kittens nestled up in a basket with their mother, Pennyworth straightening up the room.

“Ah, Miss Cassandra, Master Damian. I hope you found the meal to your satisfaction?”

“Of course, thank you,” Damian says distractedly, fussing a bit with the blanket making up the floor of the basket-nest.

“Yes, it was great. Alfred, how is Tim?” Cassandra asks, glancing at Pennyworth before kneeling next to Damian to watch as the kittens feed.

“Master Timothy fell asleep shortly after your departure, Miss Cassandra. It would seem the kitten did indeed hinder his escape, so I must thank you for your interference, Master Damian.”

“Was she kept properly warm?” Damian sees no need to hide his concern in front of these people, which is freeing in and of itself. Pennyworth does not delay his answer.

“Certainly. In fact, I found her underneath Master Tim’s blanket, sleeping rather soundly as well. They made for quite the pair.”

Damian clicks his tongue and endures Pennyworth’s gentle smile as the man leaves, presumably to try and do the dishes before Todd gets to them, an exercise in futility as last Damian saw Todd had already gotten started.

He and Cassandra part ways as they each retire to their rooms. Damian decides to ‘wind down’, as Richard would put it, before attempting sleep and sits at his desk with his earbuds in. He figures some Vivaldi and drawing will do the job. He chooses two graphite pencils and begins sketching some cats, attempting to capture their lithe grace on paper. For whatever reason his mind drifts back to the strange exchange down in the cave.

Drake has been tolerable since Damian’s return from his time spent training abroad, but Damian hasn’t been giving too much thought to his general existence since. After all, Drake has a penthouse apartment downtown and for the most part does not stay at the manor.

They end up on patrol at the same time every other week due to the rotating patrol schedule, but their paths only rarely cross unless there is a larger attempt at criminal activities to be thwarted, one threatening enough that it requires the whole family to act. On occasion they both end up doing work in the cave simultaneously, but they work on their own projects for the most part, and they rarely have reason to talk.

It’s not even by design, at least not on Damian’s part. He shrugs off the sudden creeping concern that perhaps Drake is avoiding him, because so what if he is? Damian doesn’t need his approval. Drake doesn’t matter to him. If Drake doesn’t like him, even after he made such an effort to grow into someone more mature, more fair, someone less prone to snap judgements fueled by insecurity, so what?

It isn’t as though he hates Drake. He had made a show of filing an injunction against him upon returning from his travels, but that had mostly been for old times sake. No, his loathing and, well,  _ jealousy _ had faded with distance, giving him some much needed perspective on many things, his familial relationships at the top of that list.

All said, they are family  _ more in the Godfather sense than in the blood ties sense, _ as Todd had so eloquently put it once. He had then ruined the effect with some inane prattling about pasta and guns in a thick Italian accent but the comparison is apt. This still doesn’t explain why his mind seems to be stuck on Drake, as of late.

“Tt.” He hasn’t been paying attention to what he has been drawing, but there Drake is on the page, his stupid face set in a soft smile as he looks down at the sleepy little life on his chest. Had he really looked like that? Why had  _ that _ particular image stuck with him? Damian has no answers, or at least none he wants to entertain. For some obscure reason he lingers before putting the drawing away, and he resolutely doesn’t think about why he doesn’t throw it out.

—————

Drake soon recovers, and in just a few weeks he is back on his feet and to being as bothersome as humanly possible. One morning, when Damian goes to check on the now much livelier eight weeks old kittens, he finds only four of them playing in their room. He’s surprised to find the missing tuxedo kitten on a couch in the main lounge, playing with a string on the hoodie Drake is wearing. The man himself is tolerating her jumping about, reclining with what looks like Wayne Enterprises-related work on one of his numerous laptops.

The kitten’s mother, a white, blue-eyed beauty who is almost completely deaf, strolls into the room and immediately weaves herself between Damian’s legs where he stands frozen in the doorway, butting her head against his shins in a demand for attention.

The kitten gives a squeaky meow, and Drake distractedly pets her head, saying, “We’ve talked about this, Beelzebub. I’m working.”

That is enough to spur Damian into action.  _ “She  _ is a  _ girl.” _

“Gender is a social construct,” Drake replies without missing a beat, not even looking up from his screen. Clearly he noticed Damian’s presence prior to his speaking up.

“Tt,” Damian says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Which apology cat is that anyway? I thought Bruce asked Selina not to give you any more of those.”

“It’s Chou-Fleur, and I’ve had her for about a month, so she’s hardly  _ new,” _ Damian responds automatically, bending down to pick the demanding feline up. Drake looks over only to mouth his cat’s name at him with a confused look on his face. The nerve.

“You’re a weird guy, Damian,” he laughs, turning back to his work.

“Whatever,” Damian mutters, taking this opportunity to embrace his final few months of teenagerdom, and deposits Chou-Fleur on top of Drake. She starts cleaning her kitten, never mind the fact that the surface they are on is a living, protesting human.

“Damian–!” He ignores Drake’s protests, choosing instead to step back and observe as he tries to rescue his work. He isn’t sure why or when it even happened, but somehow Drake has gotten under his skin. It feels as though some sort of switch has been flicked somewhere and now his mind keeps drifting to Drake’s…  _ Drake-ness. _

Once Drake is sufficiently healed he will fight him, Damian decides.

The kitten, whose name is decidedly  _ not _ going to be Beelzebub, is trying to suckle her mother but Chou-Fleur is having none of it and is walking all over Drake with the kitten attempting to pounce on her to the best of her abilities. It is adorable, and Drake clearly agrees, judging by the trouble he is having maintaining his disapproving frown.

Really, Damian thinks with a roll of his eyes, if Drake keeps frowning so much it’s going to ruin his handsome face. Once the thought registers properly he is so surprised by it that he recoils, making Drake look up at him in question.

“Your face is hideous,” Damian blurts. What is  _ wrong _ with him? Has he fallen  _ ill? _

Drake, thankfully, only shoots him a dark glare before closing his laptop, clearly having given up on getting any work done while covered in cats.

—————

Tim Drake (✓) @TimDrake * 12 June 2017   
Lots of little kids here at WE today for bring-your-kids-to-work-day! Such a shame @DamianWayne couldn’t make it. :(

Damian Wayne (✓) @DamianWayne * 12 June 2017   
As always, very proud of my family’s continued work to support the disenfranchised. I hope @TimDrake enjoys his stint at a real company.

kitty toe beans @jellyjellybeanbean2187 * 12 June 2017   
aaaaaand they’re at it again #waynedrake #somarriedomg

Gotham Gazette (✓) @GothamGazette * 12 June 2017   
Drake, demoted?! Vicki Vale speculates on the rumors HERE:  gthgz.co/3v6t0q

Tim Drake (✓) @TimDrake * 12 June 2017   
Vicki. Please. @VickiVale @GothamGazette

—————

Informing his closest associates of his homosexuality has been a painless thing, for the most part. The Titans had even thrown him a party, covering the tower in rainbows for the occasion. He had intellectually known that it would be a non-issue, judging by past conversations as well as the easy acceptance of Kane, etcetera, but.  _ But. _ When it came to the family, a vague but bone deep fear of rejection had lingered, due to his disinterest in providing heirs the natural way.

Not that he even wants children. Clearly his father is unconcerned with blood ties, if one judges by his tendency to adopt any orphan standing still long enough. Even still, he had been raised to believe a certain thing, had from an early age been instructed in the importance of carrying the bloodline forward. Unlearning these expectations has taken time. In the end the whole Bat-family had reacted favorably, without anyone making a fuss, and Damian is grateful.

On the other hand, his mother’s reaction has been impossible for him to predict, and so he has postponed bringing the issue up with her. As a child the scope of human sexuality hadn’t ever been on the agenda, as their discussions had related to his health and training and little else. Their relationship has developed into something less strained over the years, but they will likely never be extremely close. No, that ship had sailed once he made it clear that he was choosing the Batman mantle rather than the one of the Demon’s Head. The opinions that side of his family holds should have little impact on him.

But, she is his mother. He cares for her, and knows she cares for him, in her own way.

Her silence makes him want to vomit when he finally tells her – months after telling his father’s side of the family – over their customary bi-monthly tea. She is silent for a minute, contemplating her beverage. Damian finds himself struggling to sit still, in spite of all his training.

At long last she looks up at him with a small smile. “Should you wish to have a child regardless, you are welcome to make use of the facilities in our possession.”

Not a perfect acceptance, but about as much as could reasonably be expected from Talia al Ghul, Damian supposes.

With the important parts dealt with, Damian decides that he is free to start dating, as it were. The only problem with that plan is that he doesn’t feel that particular brand of attraction to any of his teammates among the Titans, and dating a civilian seems like too much trouble.

Certainly he does not live in celibacy, but the lines are clearly and plainly defined: he and Beast Boy are teammates finding an outlet for their physical urges only, nothing more, and nothing less. The bonds of friendship strangely enough strengthen, and when Garfield finally gathers enough courage to request Raven’s presence for a date at an expensive restaurant, the establishment is one Damian himself recommended and he is genuinely glad to see the two of them work out as a pair.

Damian decides to wait for feelings of a more romantic nature to occur naturally, once the right person comes into his life, and deal with those feelings as needed. After all, according to his understanding, that is how love is supposed to work. He will deal with all this once that day arrives.

—————

Damian is dozing. Though the grassy hill he’s resting on belongs to the extensive manor grounds, it is situated about a seven minute walk from the manor proper, making it a peaceful place to rest. His body is shaded by the ever-in-motion shadow of a great oak tree, and he is in the fine company of several cats. It's probably moments like this that encourage Kyle’s jokes to steal him away from Father and make him her Catlad. Ridiculous.

He feels at peace here, his eyes closed and his face warmed by flecks of persistent July sun. He’s listening to a lovely cello piece with his earbuds in, which is why he’s taken off-guard, a rare thing after all his training. It isn't until the cat half on top of him gets up that he opens his eyes and is met by a grinning Drake, camera in hand.

“Fuck off,” he says after removing his earbuds, but even he can admit that his words lack fire. It’s too lovely a day to be aggressive, plus it would upset his feline companions. He decides to do the polite thing and tucks his phone and earbuds away.

“Sure,” Drake placates but instead of doing so he sprawls on his back next to Damian, humming in contentment when a cat starts grooming his bare arm.  _ The poor creature, _ Damian thinks as he watches, but it is a half-hearted thought at best. “Mm. This is nice.”

“Shush.” Damian swats Drake’s shoulder, careful not to disturb the tabby’s ministrations. “Quiet. Only silence is permitted here.”

If he can’t be bothered to move his hand from where it’s brushing against Drake’s shoulder, well. Drake doesn’t bother to complain either, so clearly it’s a non-issue. Carelessly, he allows his eyes to drift shut once more, actually feeling  _ safe _ with his former archrival.

The next thing Damian knows is ice cold water being sprayed in his face. He jerks, a squawk of protest leaving his mouth, his complaint followed by an indignant yell from Drake. He flips over on the grass, getting into a crouch as his wide eyes are frantically searching for the assailant. The whole moment of action takes place only a split second, and his eyes land on the enemy before Drake is done yelling.

Cassandra is standing before him and Drake with an evil grin on her face and an evil, brightly colored water gun in her hand. It is one of the ones Drake has modified, Damian can tell at a glance since it has a sniper’s scope attached to it, something he doubts comes with the store bought version.

Damian shoots Drake a glance and is met with a wet face set in determination. A silent agreement is struck. As one, they jump to their feet and grab for her. With a laugh and a twirl away from their grasping hands, she sprays them again before she takes off running.

The rest of the afternoon is spent in outright warfare, a free-for-all stopping only once Pennyworth calls them all in for dinner. Richard and Todd joined them along the way, as had Father, to Damian’s surprise.

He had looked a bit sweaty after his day at Wayne Enterprises, and so they had, magnanimously, united to give him a cooling experience. Meaning that by their powers combined they had managed, through a cunning scheme in six parts, to shove a thoroughly shocked Batman into the pool, bespoke suit and all. A terrific victory for the younger generation.

Pennyworth gives them all looks of mild disapproval and sends them off to change out of their sopping wet clothes at once. Although he declares Father’s suit ruined from the chlorine of the pool, he  _ does _ serve cherry pie for dessert, so they all know he secretly approves of the afternoon’s activities. 

All his little birds home at the nest, and Father taken down a peg as well as being reminded that he is in fact human? Yes, of course the old butler approves. They spend the evening talking and laughing together in the lounge – those not set to patrol, Damian included, drinking fine brandy as they socialise. However, Drake, Richard, and Todd have patrol this particular night, and so they end up leaving rather early. 

Damian finds himself sorry to see them go. Not just Richard, or the surprisingly tolerable Todd, but Drake as well. The kitten, who to Damian’s consternation seems to have chosen Drake as her favorite human, had also been very sorry to see him go and had sat in the window watching the vehicles’ tail lights disappear with a forlorn look on her face.

She is currently going by the name Philomène, but Drake insists upon calling her Phil purely to spite Damian. Drake is doing this for the sole purpose of bothering him, and damn him but it’s  _ working. _ Damian realizes he’s smiling at the kitten as she watches Drake leave.

Drake is a bother. In addition to his skills as a fighter and detective, being a bother is one of his strongest skills. Damian has no idea when this started to amuse him as much as it exasperates him. Strange, but all the same, relentlessly bothering him was more or less how Richard wormed himself into Damian’s heart all those years ago.

Damian prepares for bed, little Philomène playing with her orange brother, Agamemnon, on the floor precisely where they will be most underfoot. After nearly stepping on them for the umpteenth time he gives in and puts them on his bed where they’ll be out of his way for the moment. The kittens are much livelier now at nine weeks, and have been exploring the second floor of the manor with gusto. The staircase yet intimidates, however, giving Damian one less thing to worry about. He will have to start finding homes for them soon.

Once in bed, his thoughts drift back to the current point of confusion in his life. In spite of Drake possibly being the most annoying human being on the planet, they had spent an enjoyable day in each other’s company. As he gets comfortable, Damian reflects upon this.

Perhaps not being antagonistic towards Drake could even lead to friendship. They are not so different, after all. Similar ideals, an understanding for each others’ pasts… Yes, he decides as he drifts off to the sound of the sleeping kittens’ purring, a friendship with Drake could turn out beneficial.

—————

He awakens a few hours later, shirt drenched in sweat and clinging to his heaving chest. His mind is plagued with vague impressions of a wet, see through tank top clinging to firm abs, a conspiratorial grin, and clever, dexterous hands expertly maneuvering a heavily modified water gun. The dream has left him with an erection.

_ Ah, _ he thinks as he with shaking hands peels the sticky fabric off of his body and steps into the cold water of the shower.  _ So that is why my mind has been so preoccupied lately. _ This is clearly a sign that, rather than seek out a closer bond, he should instead avoid Drake forever.

He has a sinking feeling in his gut that this is one thing he will fail to excel at.

—————

The following day he joins his father for a meeting with the company’s department for research and development, and of  _ course _ Drake is there. He shuffles in with his nose buried in a sheaf of papers five minutes late. It goes unremarked upon, but from that point onwards Damian can scarcely remember a word of what was said during the meeting. No, he spends two hours doing nothing but doodle Drake in the notebook he has hidden away in his lap.

He draws Drake slumped half-asleep at the boardroom table, attached to an intravenous drip full of coffee. Drake gesticulating wildly at revenue charts with something manic in his eyes and huge, yet barely exaggerated bags underneath them. Drake looking put together and devastatingly handsome in his slim fit suit, leaning back regally in his boardroom chair with that particular look of laser sharp focus in his eyes, the one that makes Damian shiver. 

He is left surreptitiously glancing down at that last one for the remainder of the meeting, comparing it to the real thing and tweaking it to near perfection. He’ll have to hack in and get the recording of the meeting later.

As the developers and others present at the meeting file out of the room, Father casts Damian a pointed glance in between bland smiles and handshakes; it clearly indicates he is to remain in this room until everyone else has left. Damian looks away and leans back in his chair with what definitely isn’t a pout, slipping the notebook into his bag as he waits.  _ Of course _ Father would notice his distraction. 

As people leave the room the small talk peters out, and then there is silence. Damian looks away from the window to find Father and Drake looking at him with concern.

_ “What?” _ He doesn’t care if he sounds bratty, he just wants to get out of there. It’s too close to Drake for comfort after what happened last night, and he just wants to leave with his mind and dignity intact.

“Damian…” Father begins, but he pauses, and Drake leans forward, cutting in with,

“Is something wrong?”

“Only your  _ face, _ Drake,” Damian spits out, uncomfortable as well as paranoid under the scrutiny, and wanting the conversation done with as soon as possible.

“I believe your opinion on this matter has been established already, son.”

Father’s voice is chiding, but he shoots a quick glance down at where Damian’s bag is hidden underneath the table and Damian has to swallow around the sudden lump of nerves in his throat. Did he  _ see? _ Damian is certain he was hiding his drawings from everyone, but. This is  _ Father. _ Damian finds himself unable to come up with an answer to that, mouth left hanging open with what he’s sure is a ridiculous deer-in-the-headlights look.

“Damian, come on.” Drake didn’t seem to have seen Father’s pointed look from where he’s seated on his other side, and now he’s leaning forward with a frown on his face. “You’re usually so attentive at these meetings, full of suggestions and those thinly veiled insults of yours. This passivity is unlike you.”

At the compliment Damian feels his cheeks grow red. Father looks like he’s fighting down a smile and Damian sends him a glare as he gets to his feet. He has had quite enough of all this.

“I happen to be  _ quite _ alright, thank you. Good  _ bye.” _

With that he takes his leave, intending to avoid them both for as long as possible.

—————

Four days later Damian decides that avoiding Drake like this is both ridiculous and immature, and so he drops by Drake’s penthouse apartment in downtown Gotham at the tail end of his patrol. Both to pick up some intel in person and to prove to himself that he can interact with him like a normal human being.

He finds Drake shuffling about in a zombie-like state that indicates that he is due for a so-called ‘assisted nap’ unless he takes some rest of his own volition. He is wearing a rather oversized Nightwing t-shirt, and if he is wearing any underwear underneath – Damian thinks distractedly, trying his very best not to stare like a fool – they must be very small.

Drake is saying something, but his voice sounds like it’s coming from far away, muffled as though through water, and Damian can’t quite force himself to make out the words. Damian drags his eyes away from his bare legs as Drake huffs, blowing hair out of his eyes, his brows furrowed and his mouth set in a displeased pout. Lower lip sticking out exaggeratedly.  _ Enticingly. _ Damian tears his eyes away from Drake’s mouth only for his gaze to end up lingering on his legs again, entranced by the line of his t-shirt brushing his upper thigh.

_ “Damian, _ are you even listening?” His name. Drake said his name, breaking through his stupor, if only for a moment.

Drake is still speaking, lips moving with each syllable, but Damian swears he’s forgotten how to breathe. All he can think about is the way Drake's lips had moved around the syllables, ‘Da-mi-an.’ He wants him to say it again, so much so that it would have frightened him, had he been capable of feeling anything other than lust.

His body betrays him, moving without his control and Damian almost startles at the feeling of warm skin pressing against his palm, belatedly realizing that his hand is cupping Drake's cheek. Higher brain functions now completely shut down, he draws him in even closer, and Drake… He comes willingly.

When their lips meet it’s as though a mist rolls in over Damian’s mind: one minute he and Drake are staring each other down, and the next they're making out on the couch, working each other to completion. Somehow Drake has ended up on top of him, riding his thigh and grinding down against his cock, briefs discarded somewhere. They really had been tiny, Damian thinks as he’s coming down from his orgasm, the thought feeling distant and pleasantly fuzzy.

As the fog of arousal lifts Damian realizes two things: first, that his pants are now disgustingly sticky, and secondly, that they will have to talk about what had just happened. An unpleasant and possibly deeply embarrassing conversation he would rather postpone indefinitely. He should have stuck to having friendly sex with his teammates.

Turns out that he needn’t have worried; the strenuous activity seems to have finally exhausted Drake to a degree where he passed out, as evidenced by his soft snoring into Damian’s neck. Careful, but confident in his previous experience with witnessing Richard do the same without waking him, Damian shifts around until Drake’s body rests on the couch rather than on top of his own and he can stand up.

The Nightwing emblem on Drake’s shirt stares up at him accusingly. This probably hadn't been what Richard had in mind when he had wished for the two of them to become friendlier. Damian fights down the sudden urge to laugh, both at himself and at the whole situation.

After some deliberation he decides to be courteous and carries Drake into his bedroom, tucking him beneath the bedcovers. That way Drake cannot confront him later about having been treated rudely, at the very least.

_ Why _ did he do this? Damian prides himself upon being above such mundane things as carnal desire, only indulging when he intends to, so why has  _ Drake _ of all people broken his resolve so thoroughly? And why on Earth hasn’t he taken his leave yet?

Shaking himself, he forces his feet to move. One last look at Drake’s sleeping face, then he’s gone.

—————

The next time they run across each other, Drake acts as though nothing of any importance has occurred between the two of them. Damian doesn’t know how to react to it, so he plays along. They have dinner at the manor and the entire time Drake alternates between distant politeness and the usual exasperation he seems to hold for Damian’s entire existence.

Days pass. They patrol, they banter, they… somehow end up at Drake’s apartment once more, Damian utilizing every skill he has wringing the most delicious noises out of him. It’s a rush of power unlike any of his previous experiences in this area, probably because it is  _ Drake. _

This second time, a condom is involved. Drake doesn’t waste time on the preparations, and before Damian knows it he’s fucking Drake against the wall. He doesn’t let go until they’re both spent, and it seems to be a revelatory experience for Drake, if Damian judges by how loud he is being and how tightly his legs wind around Damian's hips. Damian allows himself to feel smug about it. There are even scratches on his back that tingle pleasantly as he lowers a shaky Drake to his feet.

He has to help him reach the bed, and then Damian is dragged down with him for another round where he finds himself being worked over,  _ dominated _ so thoroughly and coming so hard his toes are nothing but a far-off tingly sensation once they’re done.

“You know how this benefits thing works, right?” Drake pants as he lies on his back next to him, a glow of satisfaction suffusing from him.

“It is beneficial, I suppose,” Damian retorts, his breathing labored and his head spinning. “At last, you’re finally being useful.”

He gets a tired smack for his troubles, but that doesn’t diminish his grin. Or Drake’s, for that matter. Only two nights later they’re at it again, this time in Damian’s room at the manor. It’s ill-advised, but with the two of them still running high on adrenaline after a night of rooftop swinging it feels all too natural. And without Damian even trying very hard, it keeps happening.

In the back of his mind Damian realizes that this is getting ridiculous. His sex drive  _ isn’t _ like this, he swears, and he hasn’t gotten the impression that Drake is like that either. The two of them seem to have some sort of absurd magnetic attraction happening, where a glare and some privacy is a combination that tends to lead to sexual situations.

At this rate, Damian is going to have to admit that he is becoming addicted to their trysts. It galls him, but not as much as he might have expected. Not that he could have ever  _ expected _ to end up involved with Drake, of all people. For the time being, they have managed to keep this new intimacy between the two of them mostly a secret. 

Knowing Cassandra she at the very least suspects something, and Damian assumes Drake’s clone friend can tell – if Drake hasn’t told him outright – but they both have the good sense to keep the information to themselves. Father…  _ might _ not know, on virtue of having spent the majority of the month they’ve been doing this off-planet, on some Justice League mission. Pennyworth definitely knows, which is embarrassing, to say the least, and leaves Damian with an uncomfortable feeling of guilt deep in his gut. He knows this foray is a bad idea, and yet he keeps coming back to it.

Keeps coming back to Drake.

Drake and his clever hands, his  _ legs, _ his carefree, mischievous grin that Damian so rarely sees outside of bed. Though, to be fair, this new way of working out their frustrations with each other seems to be helping with the lingering enmity. At least the open hostility has noticeably lessened between them lately. He supposes, or more accurately he simply assumes that Drake at least partially still loathes him. Perhaps that is why the sex is so passionate.

He’s sure this isn’t even remotely healthy, and he should probably put a stop to it, or at least have that dreaded discussion of where they actually stand with each other, but they’ve settled into some sort of routine, and it’s comfortable. It’s  _ pleasant, _ falling asleep next to someone. Not that Damian ever allows himself to stay until morning, but… still. A glutton for punishment, is what he is.

This cannot possibly end well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any britishisms I just want u 2 kno that Ra's is an anglophile and that's why ok just go with it just accept it shhh


	2. Chapter 2

When Dick enters the manor library he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Damian is sitting by the window with a book, face carefully neutral. Tim is lounging on the couch like usual, laptop open and hands tapping away, little Phil asleep by his side. It all looks very casual and every instinct in Dick’s very  _ bones _ is screaming that something is very, very wrong.

“Hey guys, whatcha doing?” he tries, carefully. He regrets it immediately.

“Oh, nothing much,” Tim says icily. Damian’s body goes rigid and Dick instinctively braces himself, preparing to break up a fight, should it turn physical. “Damian is just being the kind of idiot who thinks Tom Bombadil is  _ pointless, _ that’s all.”

Wait, who? Damian slams his book shut, narrowed eyes staring straight out the window, body practically quivering with rage. Who the fuck is Tom? What is happening right now?

“As I was  _ telling _ Drake,” Damian grits out, still not turning around to look at either of them, “Bombadil is a buffoon and a fool and I am glad they elected to ignore his existence for the cinematic version.”

Tim makes a noise of pure outrage, twisting his body around in order to glare at Damian over the back of the couch.

“How  _ dare _ you!” Tim hisses, glaring daggers at Damian with his face set in a grimace of disgust, and Dick is so confused. Phil gives Tim an affronted twitch of the tail and leaves the room. A hand lands on Dick’s shoulder.

“Just leave them to it, Dickie,” Jason says, a book in his other hand. He must have stepped out from behind a nearby shelf without Dick noticing, preoccupied as he was. “They won’t appreciate you taking sides.”

“I don’t even know who this, this person is!” Dick hisses to him, reluctant to take his eyes away from the scene in front of him. Tim and Damian were now arguing about forests and… tombs? That’s concerning, to say the least. Damian insists that  _ the film works fine without that mess, so clearly it wasn’t necessary! _ and Dick momentarily fears for Tim’s laptop, he’s gripping it so hard. “What are they even fighting about?!”

“Lord of the discourse, just leave it.” Jason gently steers him out of the room. Damian’s raised voice follows them into the corridor and Dick slows down instinctively.

“Oh, I understand why you would favor him.” Damian’s voice is dripping with contempt and Dick tries to wriggle free but Jason won’t let him go. “Birds of a feather and all that, you utter –” Smack. Uh-oh. Physical violence! “Incompetent –” Smack!  _ “Fool!” _

“Oh, dear.” Alfred passes them and heads into the library. Hopefully that means no one is about to die, and Dick allows himself to be steered away from the tumult.

He had thought his two littlest brothers had been getting along better lately. His keen detective senses are telling him that there’s more to all this, and he’s determined to get to the bottom of it.

—————

Tim is self-aware enough to acknowledge that getting a blowjob in the cave is one of those things that  _ hadn’t _ seemed like a good idea at the time, but damn if it hadn’t been hard to say no when he wanted it just as bad. Damian just looks so good when you put him on his knees. Or when he puts himself there, to-may-to, to-mah-to.

Either way, Damian is hungry for it and Tim is far too attracted to his eagerness. Tim tugs Damian back by his hair to finish on his face with a groan, something he knows Damian loves. Sure enough, he whimpers for it, hips rolling against the boot Tim is so graciously offering him. A few more thrusts, and Damian reaches his limit with a bitten-off scream muffled in Tim’s clothed thigh. It still echoes, and the bats far above them rustle and squeak. Damian shudders and grips Tim’s thighs with a desperation that only feeds into his addiction.

Tim takes the moment of stillness to just look at Damian for a while. When Damian isn’t actively trying to assassinate and/or usurp him, he’s pretty decent company, Tim supposes. Also, surprisingly good in bed. Of course he  _ cares _ about Damian, even back when he couldn’t stand him he had always  _ cared, _ but the thought that he might be starting to genuinely  _ like _ him is a little bit terrifying. What would Bruce say? He really  _ is _ losing control of the situation, Tim thinks as he cards his fingers through a shuddering Damian’s hair, and that unsettles him.

Damian’s eyes remain closed as he breathes heavily into his thigh. Just as well, as Tim isn’t sure what his own face is doing right now, looking down at him. Damian has been more cordial since his return from training but he maintains a certain air of aloofness, now assisted by the fact that he is around six feet tall and built like a bruiser. Perhaps, Tim considers, his holier-than-thou behavior is at least partially fueled by some sort of insecurity.

Damian doesn’t seem to have that many friends.

There’s a distressed twinge in Tim’s heart-region, but Damian is starting to breathe more normally. Surely he will leave soon, without a word, as he usually does when things get a little too raw between them. Maybe the whole power play thing had been a little too much without prior agreement.

Tim winces as Damian gets to his feet, studiously avoiding looking Tim in the eyes. Uh-oh. He’s made a serious miscalculation and he has little faith that Damian will allow him to try to fix it. Sure, Damian had clearly liked being pushed around, he usually does, but they hadn’t agreed to take this particular route beforehand; they had gotten back early to an empty cave and just gotten right down to business. This sort of thing could get you into a pretty intense headspace, Tim knows that from experience, and no way is Damian going to let him ease him through the aftermath now.

Damian is clearly shaken from the encounter, and he turns away and heads for the stairway without even sparing Tim a glance. His walk is confident in spite of how uncomfortable the mess in his pants must be, not to mention the mess in his head, and something in Tim aches for him. All that pride turning on him, hurting him. He considers calling him back but knows Damian well enough by now to realize his pride won’t allow him to stop.

He quickly cleans up and forces himself to leave the manor without checking on Damian first. Hopefully he’s coming down alright on his own. When did this thing get so complicated? It had started as just some not-so-innocent fun, but now… He’s driving downtown, on his way home, when the worrying gets too strong and he makes a call he hopes he won’t regret.

“Y’ello?” 

“Steph, I’ve made a mess of things.” His blurted words are met with a drawn out groan and a rustle of what sounds like bed sheets. Crap, she’s in bed? “I’m sorry, did I wake you up?”

“No,” Steph lies around a yawn. “What’d you fuck up now?”

“A… relationship thing. Kinda.” How does he even word this? He doesn’t want to, well,  _ implicate _ Damian if he can avoid it. He  _ should _ be able to avoid it.

“Ugh.” The groan is drawn out and Tim smiles despite himself. “My life doesn't revolve around you and your girl problems, Timmy.”

“Yeah, I know, just.” He swallows. “Uh, she… Steph, I don’t know what to do.”

“…Come over. We’ll talk it out over a bottle of red.”

“Thanks Steph. You’re the best.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

—————

Drake enters through the front door, already working on his tie, his face showing pure exhaustion. Damian suddenly realizes that calling ahead would perhaps have been a good idea. Good manners, at the very least. After all, it’s not like they’re… Well. They just aren’t.

“I apologize for this intrusion,” he says stiffly, seemingly startling the other man, furthering that little bit of concern brewing in the back of Damian’s mind. “Would you like me to leave?”

For a moment Drake just stares at him like he is some sort of spectre, a product of his overworked mind. Then his mouth twists into a small, tired smile.

“No, you came all this way. I mean, I don’t think I’m up for any, uh,  _ activities _ tonight but if you’d like to eat…?” His voice trails off in question. Damian finds himself nodding his assent before he even has time to consider what has been asked of him. Oh well.

“Great. Indian takeout alright with you?” Drake says as he moves toward the kitchen, shrugging out of his suit jacket on his way and dropping it unceremoniously on the floor. Damian grimaces and gives into the urge to pick it up. He places it over the back of a kitchen chair and looks up to see Drake rummage through a pile of takeout menus.

“Don’t you ever  _ cook?” _ he asks to fill the silence, surprised to find he cares about the answer.

“Not if I can help it,” Drake replies cheerfully, apparently having found the one he was looking for. Damian rolls his eyes, even though he feels much the same way. While he has strived to learn the basics of cooking he doesn’t actually enjoy doing it. Too much time spent working on something that will be gone in minutes once done. It is dissatisfying.

Drake leaves the actual call to Damian so he can get the dish of his choosing to his exact specifications, but he has the decency not to remark on Damian’s often-so-called  _ fussiness _ when it comes to the food he consumes. He has preferences, and mocking him for them isn’t going to make them go away. Something Drake seems to actually respect.

As Drake wanders off to change out of his suit, he calls out a number over his shoulder, presumably the menu number of his preferred dish. When Damian goes over the menu, he is surprised to find Drake’s chosen dish is also vegetarian, a handwritten note next to it specifying ‘no coriander.’

“I’m becoming a vegetarian by association,” Drake jokes when Damian asks him about it once the food has arrived and they’re sprawled out on the couch in front of the television. “I was at this business dinner the other week when I realized that I haven’t eaten meat in like two months, so I figured why not go along with it?”

Damian snorts when he laughs, and it makes his ears burn with humiliation, but Drake looks at him fondly and moves the conversation along without mockery. They end up spending a very pleasant night together, even though they don’t have sex. Almost like a date, except of course it wasn’t a date, that would be an absurd accusation. If it  _ had _ been a date, though, it would’ve been a good one. At least according to Damian’s admittedly very limited experience.

Somehow Damian ends up spending the night, and the morning after, such as it is, passes amicably enough with Damian preparing breakfast for the two of them before they have to make their way to the office, or R&D in Damian’s case. Drake ties his shoelaces as Damian straightens his tie in the foyer mirror, and when Drake tugs on his wrist Damian turns to him expecting words, but instead he finds himself pressed up against the cold mirror glass and his mouth thoroughly ravaged.

“As an apology for last night,” Drake breathes against his cheek, before drawing back with a sheepish smile. Damian is left with his mouth hanging open as Drake gathers his briefcase and unlocks the door.

“You coming?” He snorts a laugh. It’s stupidly charming. “No pun intended. Maybe, uh, maybe tonight, though? After my patrol?”

He looks hopeful, and Damian has no desire to decline. So he doesn’t.

—————

Summer is almost over and they’re in Damian’s room at the manor. It’s broad daylight so things are not about to go very far, but Tim admits to himself that he has forgotten how much  _ fun _ making out like teenagers is, even though all of their clothes remain on. Philomène hadn’t found it quite as entertaining and had left once it became clear they weren’t going to pay adequate attention to her, taking with her Tim’s flimsy excuse to visit the manor today. Oh well, not like anyone has questioned him, anyway.

Tim is on his back on Damian’s bed, enjoying the heat of Damian’s body above him, feeling safe in the cage Damian’s muscled arms make. Every kiss hits him like a potent drug, addictive and dizzying. He feels light-headed, like he’s going to buzz right out of his skin. If someone decides to bother Damian right now and opens the door on them, they’re screwed. They’re both way too absorbed in each other to be able to separate in time.

Damian moves his mouth to Tim’s neck, biting down gently and soothing with more soft, fluttering kisses. As much as Tim appreciates Damian’s rougher, take-charge side, he finds himself liking this softer side of him as well. He tilts his head back, a sigh drawn out of him by Damian’s gentle hand carding through his hair and sliding down to cup his cheek.

This is getting dangerous. Tim is starting to suspect maybe Damian is getting too deep into this, wanting more than what they agreed on. Then again, they didn’t formally agree on  _ anything. _ Besides, Tim reminds himself snidely, he’s the one who made up an excuse to come to Damian this time.

Damian draws back, pouting down at him. His lips are red and a little swollen, and Tim feels a bit of pride swell in his chest. “Forgive me, am I boring you? Where did your mind go?”

“Sorry,” Tim groans, rubbing his hands through his hair, undoubtedly making a mess of it. “I, uh, it’s getting late. I should get going or I’ll miss my plane.”

“Tt, we  _ own _ the plane. It would hardly leave without you.” Damian makes an aborted motion towards his hair but seems to give up on taming the birds nest it undoubtedly resembles just looking at it. Sweet boy.

“Aw, Damian,” Tim coos, smirking up at him. “Are you gonna  _ miss _ me? It’s only a weekend trip, you know.”

Damian meets Tim’s smirk with a blindingly sunny smile that, honestly, scares the shit out of him.

“Oh  _ yes. _ In fact, I am feeling so very distraught that I believe I will have to compose a  _ poem _ ,” he threatens.

“Wh– a  _ poem–,” _ Tim sputters. “Absolutely not!”

He rolls off the bed, gets to his feet, and makes for the door, deciding to retreat rather than stay and suffer through listening to Damian’s attempts at lyrical prose. He knows better than to expect anything of decent quality. Some people just weren’t meant for poetry, and Tim is one of those people just as Damian is another.

“O Drake, O Drake! Bereft of sense!” Damian hollers at his back. Tim mostly manages to suppress his disgusted groan as he quite frankly flees the room, ignoring the sound of Damian’s laughter following him.

Why such a nice dick has to be attached to such a, a  _ brat _ is beyond his comprehension.

He stomps down the hall toward the foyer, but the further he goes the harder it gets not to smile. Damian may be a brat, but he is quite adorable when he manages to make a joke, so proud of himself. It’d be cuter if he hadn’t inherited Dick’s sense of humor.

“Hey Timber, you see the littlest bat around?” Jason is standing in the foyer with Steph and Cass once he gets there. “Gotta ask him what he wants for his birthday.”

“Tt. Yeah, he’s in his room, being obnoxious.”

“Whoa,  _ hold _ up. Tim. Did… did you just…” Steph pauses for dramatic effect, leaning on an amused Jason, and Tim gives her an expectant look while he shrugs his jacket on. She clutches at imaginary pearls in an exaggerated act of shock, and Tim feels that smile tug even more at the corners of his mouth. “Did you just  _ tt?!” _

“What?!  _ No!” _ His budding smile is replaced with a look of horror.  _ Did _ he?

“Sorry, little dude, but there are several eyewitnesses at the scene of the crime and you? Were caught red-handed,” Jason downright  _ chortles _ like some old-timey cartoon villain.

“You are all biased to torment me and therefore your accounts are not viable,” Tim tries, but they’re ignoring his protests to laugh at him. Ugh. They’re all terrible people, and clearly he and Damian need to spend less time  _ talking. _ Since when do they even spend so much time  _ talking? _ He hadn’t even realized… Things are truly getting dangerous, and Tim isn’t sure what he should do about it.

—————

Damian had realized he’s fucked up somewhere quickly enough. Somewhere between ‘immediately’ and ‘at once’ when he arrived at Timothy’s penthouse and was met by icy silence. Timothy is avoiding his eyes, his body tense like a drawn bowstring, threatening to snap at any moment, and Damian isn’t sure what he did. He has a suspicion, but… He makes a few attempts at conversation and is met with short, one word answers, before he decides to outright ask. Better to know than to wonder.

“Is something the matter?” In spite of wanting to know, he still dreads the answer.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Timothy sets his heavy scotch glass down just shy of a slam, shoulders incredibly tense as he locks eyes with Damian for the first time tonight. _ “Is it.” _

“I…” Damian hesitates, and that seems to be the last drop. Timothy explodes from cold fury to fiery rage like the flick of a switch.

“The  _ app, Damian. _ The villain watch app is  _ my _ project, and you went behind my back while I was out of the country, messing with it! I thought you were better than this, you little  _ shit,” _ Timothy spits. Damian experiences a sensation that could be likened to being dunked in cold water. “Do you respect me so little?”

“That’s not it, I just thought–,” Damian tries but Timothy clearly has no patience for it.

“Oh, but did you? Did you _really_ _think?_ Well, answer this, then: what the _hell_ were you even doing in my files in the first place?!”

“I like reading your work! When I saw a problem I fixed it!” Desperation is coloring his words. All Damian knows is that he has to try and fix  _ this _ now.

“A problem?! Consider this: maybe you should have _ run that one by me first!” _ Timothy shouts that last part, and Damian actually shrinks back in shame.

The worst part of it is that Timothy is right. Damian had been intrigued by the app. It was designed to work as an alert system for civilians to avoid villain activity, with built in maps to the nearest bunker with room for them, and so on. Every bit as elegant as could be expected from someone with Timothy’s talent.

When he’d spotted a slight incongruity in the code he had acted without thinking. It was a small mistake that would’ve impacted the accuracy of certain variables. An easy enough mistake to make if you were, for example, busy  _ making time _ with someone to the detriment of your duties.

Guilt had definitely played a part in Damian’s impulsive action, because he is certain of one thing: if Timothy comes to the decision that their little affair is negatively affecting the company he will put an immediate end to it, if Damian knows him at all. He has his priorities in order and is, after all, nowhere near as invested in their thing as Damian is. 

Good thing this intervention of his has removed  _ that _ possibility, he sneers at himself, furious with how wrong things have gone.

Damian had believed that the fact that Timothy had been on another continent at the time would have meant he would have remained oblivious to Damian’s interference. It had been little more than a typo, really, and rewriting it had seemed like such a small thing, sure to go unnoticed. Evidently, Timothy kept a closer eye on his projects than Damian had assumed.

“But lo and behold, the glorious prince Damian deems it beneath him to inform the  _ peasantry,” _ Tim continues with a drawl, mocking Damian’s accent with murder in his eyes. He picks the glass back up and empties it as he stalks closer. Damian takes several steps backward until he is back outside. There doesn’t seem to be any way of salvaging this. “Those  _ sorry masses, _ that he has deigned to salvage their measly work”

“I’m sorry! That wasn’t–,” his intention, but Timothy doesn’t let him finish. Damian feels the railing of the terrace lining Timothy’s penthouse hit his back. He widens his stance, palms up in a placating gesture, and glances down to ascertain that his grappling gun is loaded and ready for a hasty retreat if need be. He’d rather flee than get physical, he thinks grimly. While he’s happy to give his all when they engage one another on the sparring mats, this is not a situation he wants to resort to violence in.

“No, you’re not!” Timothy is, if nothing else, glorious in his fury. It is too bad that it’s aimed at him. Oops, as is the glass he’d been holding. Deftly, Damian catches it and places it on a nearby table before lifting his hands once more.

“You always lie to me, have  _ always _ lied to me! Why did I think this was gonna be any different? Get  _ out!” _ When Timothy lifts another glass to throw, Damian decides that discretion is indeed the better part of valor and vaults over the railing. Twisting his body around in the air, he shoots a line to a nearby building, letting his body move with the momentum and tumble to a stop on a rooftop.

Damn.

He stays slumped on his back where he has landed, for a moment just replaying how the evening had gone so… so  _ pear-shaped. _ If only this was the kind of problem he could solve with a swift decapitation, Damian thinks sullenly, but alas.

Unfortunately, he has only a scant few moments to catch his breath before the scrape of boots on concrete breaks his musing. Without even having to think about it his body rolls over onto his front and he seamlessly gets into a defensive crouch, eyes quickly finding the intruder.

“Rob– I mean, Blackbird? I heard the, uh. You alright?” His brother, Nightwing.  _ Great. _

He groans and runs his hands over his face, tugging at his hair.

_ “No,” _ he finally spits out, flopping back onto the ground.

He remains where he is and after a moment his older brother joins him, laying down on the roof with a sigh. Damian looks over at him and is met with what is definitely a frown underneath the domino adorning his face. Damian abruptly realizes that he must have left his own in Timothy’s apartment.

Damn,  _ damn. _

Since it’s Richard, his  _ brother, _ he gives into the urge to whine and kick his legs a little at the unfairness of it all.

“Little D,” Dick laughs, but gently, still with that edge of concern to his expression. “C’mon, what happened up there, huh?”

Damian considers his options. He could certainly tell Richard to fuck off, but he has already confessed that he’s less than perfectly in balance at the moment so it’s unlikely that his brother will let him get away with it this time.

He could also tell him the truth. Damian is very tired of hiding this, he realizes. The subterfuge that had had a certain edge of excitement, had been part of the thrill of it all at the beginning has lost its shine entirely. He has grown to allow himself to trust his family with a lot of his feelings and problems, and they have never let him down. And yes, Dick is looking at him with patience, ready to help in any way he can, and Damian is just so  _ tired. _

He tells him everything.

—————

It’s been a week since that big fight, and the worst of it seems to have blown over. The family had noticed they are having some sort of issue but had left them to solve it on their own – aside from Richard’s many meaningful glances, that by some miracle Timothy hadn’t seemed to notice. Damian had sunk so far as to grovel, just a little, and had eventually been allowed back into Timothy’s bed. A worthy enough sacrifice, all said. So why is he standing in front of one of the penthouse’s living room windows, staring out at the rain like some insipid movie heroine instead of enjoying that privilege?

The truth is, sleep is eluding him. Richard’s counsel weighs so heavily on him. He had been optimistic about Damian’s chances, far more so than Damian thinks is reasonable. But in hindsight, Timothy and he  _ have _ spent a surprising amount of time together, quiet, relaxed evenings without sex being involved. He has made Timothy breakfast five times now, and… Maybe there  _ is _ reason to hope. To take that chance, to leap and trust that Timothy will catch him. Damian wants to believe this, so very badly.

“Dami?” Timothy. He audibly stifles a yawn as Damian keeps staring at the rain pouring down ominously outside. “What’re you doing up? I’m cold, come back to bed.”

“What are your feelings about… honesty, Timothy?”

“I think it’s generally the best policy. In as much as our vigilantism will allow.” Timothy sounds a bit more awake now, sharper. Damian, cursing himself for being a coward, still doesn’t turn around. Timothy’s bare feet make just enough sound against the penthouse’s hardwood floors to be heard as he walks closer. “Damian–”

“I’m falling in love with you,” Damian cuts him off bluntly, bracing himself. For what, he’s not sure. Something, anything.

He hears the other man stop in his tracks. The pause drags on for an eternity, all encapsulated in a scant few seconds.

“Damian.” Timothy takes the last few steps needed to get close enough to gently grasp his wrist. His voice betrays nothing, not a  _ damn thing. _ “Come back to bed.”

Timothy tugs, and Damian goes. He feels numb. He had braced himself for rejection, even as a ridiculous, minuscule part of him had hoped for reciprocation, but this? This is  _ nothing. _ Timothy seems to have classified Damian’s confession, that had taken so much effort to get out into the open, as  _ unimportant, _ as unworthy of even noting. Even as he mechanically gets back into bed and lets Timothy curl up to him with a sleepy sigh, Damian feels cold.

He supposes this means they will carry on as usual. Damian knows he is too weak, too addicted to this intimacy, no matter how fake, to be the one to end things.

—————

The atmosphere the next morning is tense. They go through the motions of what has become some sort of routine for their ‘mornings after’ but it feels different now. Timothy seems to be avoiding his eyes and part of Damian is grateful because he  _ aches _ whenever they do meet. Is this how things are going to be from now on? Is he supposed to live like this?

They spend the day looking over a case file together, Damian using the laptop he usually borrows when he needs one while staying over, and though the strained silence between them is interspersed with terse commentary on conclusions they reach neither of them is making much progress. Damian can feel his temper starting to flare. 

He has every right to be upset. Timothy could at least have done him the courtesy of rejecting him outright instead of whatever the hell it was he had done last night. And now he has the nerve to act like nothing has changed, even though it so obviously has!

At around five that afternoon Damian slams the laptop shut, giving up on getting anything meaningful done. When he looks over at Timothy he’s glaring at him. He puts the laptop down gently on the table with a bitten out, “Sorry.”

When he passes Timothy on the way toward the kitchen, he is snagged by the sleeve. He allows it, letting himself be pulled down into a kiss simply because that is how this would usually go. The kiss is mechanical, completely soulless, and Damian pulls away after just a second with a grimace.

“Wow, rude,” Timothy snaps, and oh, that’s rich, coming from him. Damian tells him as much, and just like that they’re at each other’s throats again.

In contrast to all the other fights they’ve had since starting a physical relationship, this one feels more brutal, with both of them throwing out words aiming to hurt, and hurt  _ bad. _ Going for any and all weak spots, only stopping short of coming to blows. Neither of them seem to be willing to back down. It’s almost like nothing has changed since Damian first came to Gotham all those years ago.

And Damian can’t for the life of him understand why Timothy is so angry with him right now, when  _ he _ was the one who didn’t even dignify Damian’s confession with so much as an acknowledgement. He has only been reacting to Timothy’s mood, so where does he get off acting like  _ Damian _ is in the wrong? Damian realizes that if he stays much longer he  _ will _ throw a punch, and so he decides to leave before that comes to pass. 

He tunes Timothy out as he puts his gear on, concentrating on fastening the various hidden catches on his tunic and activating the built-in security measures. He’s trying to let Timothy’s furious words be little more than background noise, but something in Timothy’s tone demands his attention.  _ Like a dog at the voice of his master, _ he mentally sneers at himself before Timothy’s words properly swim into focus.

“…should just dump your ungrateful ass,” he’s growling, and oh, fuck him very much.

“Oh, I'm sorry, were we  _ dating? _ That’s hardly the impression you gave me last night.” Damian’s patience has officially run out. He should leave, why isn’t he  _ leaving? _

“That’s because you are thoroughly and completely insufferable.” The smile accompanying the words doesn’t even come close to reaching Timothy’s eyes.

“Well then,” Damian says, busying himself with pressing his mask to his face, trying to conceal his hurt at Timothy’s words. He should just leave, not prolong this fight any further. “I suppose I shan’t force you to suffer my presence any longer.”

“Great! ‘Cause I’m done doing it,” Timothy bites back. “Whew! I deserve a damn medal for doing it so long, and y’know what? I don’t think  _ anyone else _ would ever want to.”

Damian feels like he has gotten the wind punched out of him. By Killer Croc. Timothy’s face does something complicated, but he says nothing more. Just stands there, glaring at Damian who is frozen in place for a beat. Then, without another word, he spins on his heel and leaves through the terrace doors.

Timothy doesn’t follow, or even call out for him, which seems to say enough. He manages to grapple down to his motorcycle somehow, and before he knows it he’s driving to the manor. Unfortunately, traffic is slow enough that he has time to think as he drives.

Trust clever Timothy to hit one of Damian’s deepest fears, and with such ease that it is as though he never even tried to conceal it at all. That nagging fear that he is so… abrasive and  _ different _ that no one would ever, could ever, come to care for him like that. Growing up an assassin has a way of turning you into that sort of unpleasant creature, Damian berates himself. Really, how could he have expected to ever be a real  _ person _ when all he’s ever known is bloodshed and unforgiving expectations?

He had almost thought… Well. It doesn’t matter what he had thought. Timothy has made his feelings clear. If there are tears on his face, the motorcycle helmet hides it.

_ Damn. _

—————

The festivities are already in full swing once Damian gets there. He had asked to be permitted to skip the celebration entirely, but the look Father had sent him had conveyed pretty much the essence of Brown’s classic expression _ ‘you’ve gotta be shitting me.’ _

He hadn’t been willing to pull the heartbreak card, as that would likely inspire Father to go on some sort of crusade to rain vengeance upon whoever is responsible. The notion warms the little broken pieces of Damian’s heart, but ultimately it’s not something he thinks Timothy deserves. It’s only been a few days, and the rejection still makes Damian feel like vomiting when the memory of it hits particularly hard, but all the same, he has come realizes that the fault lies as much with him as it does with Timothy. Damian had miscalculated, had expected and demanded more than Timothy could give.

In as much of a rebellion as he was given leeway for Damian had dragged his feet getting ready, and so he ends up being an hour late to his own birthday party, even though it is hosted in his own home. His public party, that is. He has made plans with the Titans the following week and is looking forward to that far more than this spectacle. Perhaps he will attempt to act drunk enough to be excused early… If he dares risk Father’s ire, that is.

With a sigh, he snags a flute of low-alcohol sparkling cider off of a passing waiter’s tray. These shindigs are a nightmare to prepare for, what with ensuring their identities remain secure even with so many strangers, guests and staff alike, doing their best to roam the manor. Damian would much prefer to mind the security of the place, but alas, the festivities are ostensibly for his benefit and so he must take a more center stage kind of role.

Steeling himself, he puts on a bland smile, rolls his shoulders back and lifts his chin high.  _ Once more, unto the breach. _ He wades in.

During the first couple of hours he catches several glimpses of Timothy, though they do not interact. Far more often than Damian would like their eyes meet across the room, resulting in Timothy averting his eyes at once, ducking back down into his glass and seeming deeply uncomfortable. Damian can hardly blame him.

He realizes that this is it. All words have been said, all bridges have been burned, and now he will have to relearn how to not be in love with Timothy Drake. His thoughts distract him from the tedium of the party, but frankly he’d much prefer if it was the other way around.

Soon enough, his sister shows up and drags him away from an exceedingly dull conversation about golf he had accidentally allowed himself to be roped into by some old white men he does not care to remember the names of. He and Cassandra stand off to the side for a while, judging the people mingling in the crowd, before the hired live band changes its tune to something of a more upbeat variety.

He dances with Cassandra, and Brown, and even Richard cuts in for a quick spin around the floor. It seems suspiciously like some form of intervention, an attempt to lift his spirits, but it works and Damian is grateful for it. He ends up having fun, and eventually he manages to stop looking for Timothy’s shape in the crowd.

The cake served is a work of art, shaped like Wayne manor and made mostly of very, very dark chocolate. Few of the guests seem to be able to finish their slices and barely anyone goes back for seconds. Damian spots several people wincing upon taking their first bite. He had expected this when he made his request, and takes vindictive pleasure in these distasteful people’s discomfort. Richard whines and moans over how bitter it is but Cassandra seems more than pleased to finish off his slice, as well as Brown’s.

Damian spots his father talking with some minor politician while serenely working on his second slice. It looks like he is using his tolerance for dark chocolate as an intimidation tactic, and it appears to be working. Kyle is hanging off his arm, sneaking bites, and when she notices Damian watching she sends him a conspiratorial grin. Father puts another bite into his mouth without breaking eye contact with the man in front of him, and the man visibly swallows.

As people give up on the cake they return to the dance floor. Damian offers his arm to Cassandra once more, and she accepts. People watch them dance and Damian knows it’s not just because of their stardom, but also because they make for a striking image. He is quite fortunate to have such a formidable sister. He’s enjoying himself, so naturally that is when everything goes awry. Brown sweeps in, stealing Cassandra away and, with an impressive switching maneuver, leaving Damian pressed up against the very last person he wants to dance with tonight.

Timothy looks as surprised at this new development as Damian feels, and when Damian grasps his waist in one hand and his hand with the other he actually  _ blushes. _ People are still watching, Damian knows, so he pastes on a smile and leads his partner around the floor as though nothing is amiss. They are, after all, no longer anything to each other. This should be easy.

It is not.

Damian is at a loss for what to say, and the silence between them quickly grows oppressive. Timothy is avoiding meeting his eyes, cheeks a rather fetching shade of red, and  _ damn it all, _ he looks good tonight. This has no right to be so difficult. Part of Damian wants to shake Timothy, demand he at least look at him. He takes a deep breath and… the smell of alcohol wafting off of his partner is strong enough to make him cough.

“Have you  _ actually _ been drinking?” he blurts, but quietly so as to not be overheard, concern momentarily overcoming his feeling of awkwardness.

Now that his mind is not so clouded by angst he realizes that he has been unconsciously compensating for Timothy’s unsteadiness as they dance. Timothy does not answer at first, merely keeps his eyes level with Damian’s chest as they move to the music, but then he abruptly stops short and only Damian’s training saves them from colliding with another couple.

“Yes, I have!” Timothy snaps, much too loudly. “What’s it to  _ you?” _

He spins on his heel and makes for the closest door, ignoring the judging eyes of the other partygoers. Not following him doesn’t even cross Damian’s mind. He has seen Timothy intoxicated before, but Damian had been under the impression that he is what they call a ‘happy drunk,’ so this seems like cause for concern. And Damian is predisposed to worry about Timothy. In Timothy’s current state catching up to him proves no difficulty.

“Timothy, I worry for you.” He gently grabs Timothy’s wrist and it slows him to an unsteady stop. Damian doesn’t get to keep the grasp for longer than a blink before Timothy is tugging himself free.

“Well, guess what? You have no right to be. I’m not…” Timothy interrupts himself with a frustrated noise, glaring up at Damian. “I’m not your stupid boyfriend.”

Ouch. Not like Damian needs that painful reminder.

“I assure you that I am quite aware of that fact,” he says tightly. Strangely enough this makes Timothy pause.

“But you wanted me to be. Want me to be? Right?” He hesitates for a beat but then presses on before Damian can think of anything to say. “And I ruined it. I fucked it all up by freaking out. I don’t like not being in control, it scares me! But you get that, don’t you? You  _ get me.” _

Timothy is giving him an intense look, like he’s trying to drag truth out of Damian with the power of his gaze alone. Clearly they’re having some sort of moment right now that Damian hasn’t been made privy to the details of, and he’s unsure how to approach it. Timothy doesn’t give him a chance to, continuing his ranting.

“But the thing is, Damian, that I'm an idiot. No no, don't argue!” Damian raises an eyebrow. He hadn't been about to. “Just hear me out, okay?”

“Timothy, can you please–” Timothy seems to be on a roll now, pacing and waving his arms about as he speaks, in a way that nearly takes down an unfortunate painting. Damian tries to make him stop for a moment, but to no avail as Timothy just shrugs his reaching hands off.

“I like you! As in, I _could_ be your stupid boyfriend, _like_ like you. You wanna know the truth? You really scared me, okay, I freaked out because a _relationship?_ That’s just, just…” His arm-waving is a little helpless, at this point. The way he’s looking at Damian…

“Too much?” Damian tries, feeling like his heart is twisting right out of his chest. It feels like they’re teetering on the edge of something, but Damian doesn’t know what.

“I,  _ no, _ just… argh!” Timothy kisses him.

It’s a terrible kiss. It’s uncoordinated, borderline violently so, and tasting much too strongly of champagne, but that’s not the important part. The important part is that  _ Timothy is kissing him. _ They’re kissing, and that part is great. 

They nearly fall over when Timothy tries to do something –  _ what _ exactly Damian isn’t sure, but whatever it is, it’s certainly perilous when so far from sober – and Damian makes a decision; the night’s festivities are over on Timothy’s part. It’s for his own good, and, Damian thinks with a wince, hopefully he won’t come across as overly controlling for it.

He sends off a quick text to his brother and starts herding Timothy upstairs, with some difficulty. Thankfully not because Timothy wants to stay, but rather because he can’t seem to keep his hands off of Damian. Damian tries not to take advantage of this.

“I can’t  _ believe _ I’d risk losing  _ this. _ You're so beautiful, d’you know that?” Timothy is touching his face with something like reverence in his eyes, as Damian coaxes him toward the stairs. “Your face is perfect.”

_ “You _ are very much under the influence. Come on, let us head upstairs.” Damian tries to maneuver him towards his room in the manor, figuring it's better to let him sleep his intoxication off here than let him call a taxi back to his apartment. And maybe, just maybe, Damian wants him close. Just in case of… something.

“I been drinkin’, I been drinkin’,” Timothy starts singing with a laugh, more of a giggle, really. Damian can’t fight a smile when he starts to sway as he walks in a poor imitation of dance. “Why can’t I keep my fingers off you, baby? I want you, nah nah…”

He lets Damian take more of his weight as they make their way up the stairs, still humming. He places a gentle kiss on Damian's neck once they reach the top, body leaning into him so heavily they have to stop for a moment unless Damian wants to drag Timothy the rest of the way.

“Drunk in love…” Timothy hums it into his shoulder, and Damian tenses up even though he knows it's just a lyric from a stupid song. Right?

“I think I really mean that. Yeah, I do.” Timothy nods to himself, and then his lips are against Damian’s neck, breath warm as he kisses the skin there softly.

“Timothy–,” Damian tries but he's interrupted by Timothy twisting around and hugging him and Damian has to hug back. They stand there, hugging, in the lit corridor of his father’s house while the gala carries on below as though the whole world hasn't just been upended.

“I'll tell you again, when I'm sober. I promise.” It’s mumbled into Damian’s chest, but he can still make out the words.

Timothy disentangles himself and wobbles along the corridor on his own, leaving Damian blinking after him for a second before he hurries after, in case Timothy needs him. No matter in what way, if Timothy needs him Damian will be there.

He has Timothy sit down on his bed, and helps him get his clothes off. It’s quietly intimate, Timothy’s hand hot like a brand on Damian’s shoulder as he steadies himself. He helps him strip to his underwear, putting Timothy’s suit away with care. He’s idly straightening out creases in the jacket and trying to talk himself into leaving already, when Timothy calls out to him.

“Damian… Stay?” His voice is quiet, hopeful. Damian had realized weeks ago he was incapable of saying no when Timothy uses that voice. And Damian doesn’t  _ want _ to say no. Fuck the consequences, he wants to be close to Timothy. He wants to hear him say things while sober. He stays.

—————

The next morning, the first thing Timothy says to him is, “I like being with you.” 

It's somewhat garbled as he is definitely nursing a hangover, but Damian smiles and kisses his forehead, going to fetch coffee for both of them. He is fortunate enough not to run into anyone on the way, but thinks he sees Brown’s door hanging ajar when he enters Timothy's room with cups in his hands and Philoméne in tow. He finds that he doesn't care if anyone sees him. Phil hurries to the bed, jumping onto it and making herself at home on the soft duvet.

“You're an angel,” Timothy says as he accepts the cup. It's funny, considering how many times that very same mouth has called him a demon, and Damian laughs. Timothy hides a smile behind his cup, but their eyes remain locked onto one another. It’s a quiet moment, the two of them silently sipping their beverages in Timothy’s bed and considering each other.

“You know how I like my coffee,” Timothy remarks after some time has passed.

“You take it black,” Damian points out, but Timothy’s smile is… radiant. Ugh, when did Damian turn into such a damn  _ sap? _ “Could you please, for the sake of my sanity if nothing else, state plainly what it is you expect from this? From some sort of  _ us?” _

It’s blunt, and Damian winces self-consciously at how it sounds out loud. He…  _ hopes _ Timothy knows him well enough to see his blustering for the cover-up it is.

It would seem so, as Timothy doesn’t react to his belligerent tone but instead seems to think over his question with care. He holds his mug in both hands, gazing into it with a small furrow in his brow as he considers the question. Damian is appreciative of the fact that he’s taking this seriously, but he also wants to reach out and smooth that furrow out with his fingers.

“I guess,” Timothy starts slowly, voice considering, gazing down into what’s left of his coffee for another moment before lifting his eyes to meet Damian’s. “I guess what I want is to not pretend that I don’t care about you. I want us to be an  _ us _ . I like you, and I like being with you. Maybe you don’t make me a better person, exactly, but I do like to think you make me work harder, work smarter.  _ Better. _ I could love you, if I let myself.”

Damian feels a little dizzy, enough so that he’s glad he’s already sitting down. It’s a heady thing, being loved. It still surprises him just how hard it hits, even after years of living in a loving home with a family that doesn’t hesitate to express their caring about him. His hands are shaking. Timothy reaches out and takes his mug from him before any coffee is spilled, putting both mugs on the side table.

“I’ve been an ass, Damian.”

“No argument to the contrary from me,” Damian replies, still in a bit of a daze, making Timothy laugh abashedly. He grabs Damian’s hands, running his thumbs over his knuckles, and considering him with those clever eyes of his.

“I’ll do better. When we started this, we never actually drew any defined lines in the sand, y’know. And then you got honest with me and I… made a complete ass of myself.” Another nervous laugh, with a slight blush this time. Damian wants to kiss him stupid. “But I do like you. You fuss over your food, and snort when you laugh. Your jokes suck and I love them. You get emotional when you hear that song from Mary Poppins, the bird one, and it’s adorable.”

He looks down at Philomène where she lounges among the pillows and smiles.

“You gave me a cat. That’s a pretty big plus, all things considered. So, hey. Wanna go out sometime?”

“…Alright. I suppose you’ve convinced me,” Damian’s aiming for flippant, but he isn’t trying very hard to sell it. “And for your information  _ Grayson _ is the one who– oh, never mind.”

He gives up when Timothy just grins at his attempt to salvage some of his pride, reaching out to caress his cheek and shushing him. Ah, there it is. That warm feeling starting in his chest and spreading outward. He closes his eyes and leans into the touch.

Their moment, such as it is, is interrupted when there is a knock on the door to Timothy’s room. Timothy’s hand drops, but he keeps smiling at him. Timothy gives him a nod and so Damian calls,

“The door is open.”

It’s Cassandra, hair mussed from sleep. She’s wearing a very large, bright purple sweatshirt that proudly proclaims to be supportive of the Gotham University football team. It very obviously belongs to Brown, and Damian raises an eyebrow at his sister in incredulity. She smirks back at him, glancing between him and Timothy meaningfully and winks, confirming his fears. Brown? Really? Damian would have expected her taste to be better than that.

Damian does his best to fight down his pained expression at her choice in attire and romantic partners, and asks,

“Did you need something, Cassandra?”

“Coffee isn’t breakfast,” she says. “Come downstairs. There are pancakes.”

There is also the whole family, it seems. Todd is there with a fresh scrape from his patrol last night but stuffing his face all the same. Richard and Brown seem to be having some sort of ungodly competition in drowning pancakes in syrup, and even Gordon is present, murmuring a quiet ‘happy birthday’ to him as he passes her. Cassandra takes a seat next to Brown and, ugh, steals a piece of soggy pancake.

Damian sits next to Timothy opposite the girls, and Todd tosses him a small, wrapped box across the table. He tells him he’d found it on the roof of the main Wayne Enterprises building that morning, saw it was addressed to him, and took it with him. Between bites, he goes on to explain he’d run it through all the standard tests in the cave before coming upstairs and that it came through clean.

Inside the box is a beautifully carved cat figurine. Unless Damian is mistaken it is made of is ebony, and there is a folded up letter in the bottom of the box written in his mother’s hand that he will read later, in private. He gives Todd a grateful nod and gets a nod back.

He looks at his colorful family. Everyone is laughing and joking, Father is smiling at their antics while reading the newspaper, and even Pennyworth is partaking in the moment, sitting down to eat with them all. Damian looks at Timothy and is met with a smile, and he helplessly smiles back, instinctively reaching for his hand beneath the table.

“A- _ ha!” _ Brown shoves her chair away from the table and points at them with great dramatic effect. “I bet the rest of my pancakes that you guys are holding hands underneath the table!”

Damian freezes where he had covertly, or so he thought, been playing with Timothy’s fingers, and he feels Timothy’s thigh tense up as well. Cassandra is laughing into her hands and Todd is wearing what can only be called a ‘deer in the headlights’-look, fork stopped halfway to his mouth as he stares at them. Richard is laughing, the  _ traitor, _ and Father is… sighing and turning the page of his newspaper.

“Stephanie, please don’t topple the furniture. They’re antiques.”

“Your sons are  _ banging, _ B. Doesn’t that warrant more of a reaction?”

Richard abruptly chokes on his laughter, but now Todd is taking his place, practically howling at Father’s face with Gordon joining in. It  _ is _ a rather funny face, Damian supposes, but he is currently too busy trying not to die on the spot to fully appreciate it.

“Some decorum, if I may ask, Miss Stephanie! This is a civilized meal.”

“Bruce–,” Timothy starts, but he doesn’t seem to know how to continue. Todd and Gordon are still laughing, and now Brown is as well.

_ “Enough.”  _ One word and the commotion stops in its tracks, everyone stifling giggles but still snapping to attention. Damian wants to wield that kind of power one day. “I was aware, Stephanie. I have no objections, nor any commentary. Do as you wish; I’m happy if you’re happy.”

Damian hadn’t noticed just how tense he had been until all that tension releases at once. Timothy grips his hand, tightly, and the relief is dizzying.

“Now. On the subject of the public reveal–,” Father continues, but he is interrupted.

“I  _ really _ think that can wait, Bruce.”

“Dude, give them some time.”

_ “Bruh.” _

“No!”

“B, seriously?”

_ “Master Bruce.” _

—————

After their relationship is revealed to the family, breakfast carries on mostly as normal, to Damian’s surprise. He’s not sure what he had expected, surely not scorn or derision, but the teasing is gentle and no one has expressed disapproval. Rather the opposite.

“Man, remember how the two of you used to fight like cats and dogs, and now you're all!” Richard flutters his hands around in a way that Damian assumes is supposed to convey something, but  _ what _ exactly is lost to him.  _ “Adorable! _ It’s so  _ cute!” _ he simpers, fluttering his eyelashes and Damian has half a mind to throw something at him.

“Y’know, I really don’t have to take this slander from the guy I once caught eating custard from a bowl in the kitchen at 3AM while wearing only Superman underwear,” Timothy retorts.

“Dude!” Brown laughs and Todd chokes on his drink while Damian makes a sound of disgust.

_ “Tim,” _ Richard whines as Father chuckles from behind his paper. “You promised not to tell!”

“Yeah, well. Tough.”

They eat and laugh together, and it’s just like always, to Damian’s relief. His family has weathered worse storms than this, obviously, but he had been worrying in some part of his mind. As breakfast concludes the family disperses, some heading down to the Cave, others heading out to work or school. Damian ends up in his room with Timothy, packing a few things to bring over to Timothy’s penthouse.

Now that everyone knows about them, and they’ve managed to work out the most immediate troubles in their relationship, it seems pointless not to move Damian’s things over for real. Up until then his strategy has been ‘forgetting’ some of his things – such as a few changes of clothes, a toothbrush, a nice suit, other very forgettable things like that – at the penthouse and then never getting around to returning them to the manor.

He considers the last two kittens who have yet to be rehomed, play-fighting on the floor. There’s Agamemnon, the orange striped boy cat who is by all appearances staying at the manor to become spoiled and fat, and then there’s Philomène, who is Timothy’s in all the ways that matter.

“–it’s up to you though, we could also get new ones for my place if you find my shampoo so  _ very _ offensive– what is it?”

“Perhaps we should bring Philomène.”

Timothy’s face splits into a slow smile, growing larger until he is downright beaming at him and Damian sighs fondly at his excitement.

“If you’ve been wanting to bring her to the penthouse you might have suggested it earlier,” Damian teases.

“Oh, but I wouldn’t want to step on your toes, your highness,” Timothy teases back, but he looks so happy at the prospect that Damian lets him get away with it.

—————

Later, when they’re in the car and on their way downtown, Timothy brings up the question of the public reveal once more.

“Bruce had a point, about the media, y’know. They’ll sniff this out sooner or later now that the proverbial cat is out of the bag.” He’s absently petting Philomène, having let her out of her cat carrier, and Damian thinks he looks almost nervous to be discussing this.

“Mrow,” Phil chimes in.

“No, not you,” Timothy replies.

“She truly adores you.” Damian is trying to focus on the road, but Timothy has a tendency  to be distracting.

“Ugh.” Timothy, in spite of his protestations, still reaches out a hand for her to push her little kitty face against, purring up a storm.

“Can’t say that I see the appeal,” Damian says nonchalantly. Tim rolls his eyes and scoffs, but lovingly.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he says, patting Damian’s cheek. Damian makes a show of huffing in faked displeasure, which Timothy ignores, smiling still.

“I suppose we could always just kiss in public,” Damian jokes, stopping at a red light. They’re almost… home, he supposes that’s what the penthouse has become to him now. Timothy is quiet, and Damian chances another glance at him as the light turns green. He is wearing a far-off look of contemplation.

“…Hm.”

“Oh, you cannot be  _ serious.” _

—————

Gotham Gazette (✓) @GothamGazette * 25 October 2017   
BREAKING: Wayne boys involved in (incestuous?!) scandal!  gthgz.co/89he5u   
[Blurry picture of Damian Wayne dipping Tim Drake outside a McDonald's. Damian is holding Tim’s thigh as his leg wraps around Damian’s waist, with Tim having his arms slung around Damian’s shoulders. Even from a distance it’s clear that they’re kissing.]

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this mess of a thing! It was hard work but I think I may have learned a thing or two! If nothing else about the importance of communication lol. If you can spot the Super Secret Pattern in the twitter dates you... idk, get a coolkid thumbs up?
> 
> This fic has a tumblr post [here](http://chronicallyhaughty.tumblr.com/post/169124781169/).
> 
> [Writing Tumblr](http://chronicallyhaughty.tumblr.com/) | [Main Tumblr](http://nattvingen.tumblr.com/) | [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/Feloss)


End file.
